


The Rules Which We Abide By

by oxymoronic



Category: The Matrix (1999 2003 2003)
Genre: Early Work, F/M, Ficlet, Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/pseuds/oxymoronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wonder of deciding between the real and the nonexistent; Trinity and Smith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rules Which We Abide By

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my LJ [here](http://oxymoronic.livejournal.com/28380.html).

Neo likes the Matrix.  
The rules mean nothing there.  
_he can fly, for fuck’s sake_  
No absolutes. No shades of grey. No definite. A myriad of opportunity.  
He’s sick of saving the world.

 

 

He took the risk.  
_a gambling man who can see every possibility_  
They freeze and lock and Smith judges his next move.  
Neo wets his lips. “Who dictated that this is all _we_ can be?”  
He trusted himself. He’d seen they will happen and therefore it is irrevocable; seeing the signs in a demented character study, examining a piece of software, picking up body language in a bodiless being. Neo’s no computer genius, but he likes to think he knows something.  
Smith’s idea of a response is a broken fibula and a haemmorage.  
_wrong again, Mr Anderson, and Neo regrets_  
With dark glasses hiding synthetic eyes, it’s easy to get your wires crossed.  
_but can’t forget_

 

 

Neo devises the scene that never happened. It involves sex. Lots of sex. No words. Sex.  
And something to do with a spoon.  
He’s punched him; the knowledge they can touch is enough in itself and he only needs his hand to come.

 

 

Asimov.  
The ghost in the machine.  
_an opening?_  
He asks Morpheus.  
“Just because they’re machines, does that mean they can’t feel?”  
Morpheus shakes his head. “Don’t, Neo. It’s easier if you think of it that way.”  
He returns unsatisfied to the meniality of his task, washing or fixing or drying or fucking. He wonders what sentiment Morpheus thinks he’s referring to; if anyone has ever had the predicament he’s in now.

 

 

A moment in battle.  
They pause in suspension.  
Neo spits around bloodied teeth. “Can you feel my hand? Can you feel my touch? Can you feel _anything_?”  
His fingers clamp angrily and relax.  
Smith smiles. “Tell me, Mr Anderson. How do you describe colour to the blind man?”

 

 

With nothing similar to regret, Neo enters the Matrix and is obvious.  
_attracting the attention of the devil_  
“Goodday, Mr Anderson.”  
Neo’s fingers twitch. “You’re not attacking me.”  
“Neither are you; no, I calculated this was not the appropriate response to your emergence.” His head slanted. “Why are you here, Mr Anderson?”  
“Do you have to ask?”  
“Clearly.”  
They’d be pacing if that didn’t reveal their weakness. “Are you calling your Agents?”  
“Are you calling _yours_?”  
Neo moved his head once. “They don’t know I’m here. I disguise the codes.”  
“Where do they think you are?”  
“Argentina. On top of a mountain.”  
“How quaint.”  
“The goats don’t think so.”  
They pause and stare. Smith takes off his glasses.  
“Why are you here, Agent Smith?” he asks softly.  
Smith looks at him. “To marvel at the beauty of the world.”  
Neo looks up  
_maybe, just maybe_  
something in the eyes?  
“It becomes apparent our objectives are, for once, conjoined; consequentially, the following actions should be similarly so, should they not?”  
Neo’s mouth dries and he nods. He takes him to a rooftop and nobody sees.  
_but_ they _do, and by then the damage is done;_  
_gonna make you feel it; can you still feel it?_  
And how to separate the emotion and the act?

 

 

Neo discovers he can still sleep in the Matrix by waking up.  
Smith is gone when he does.  
Neo dissipates into reality.  
It becomes the norm.

 

 

(synthetic) tongue on his collarbone  
his hands on (synthetic) hips  
somehow, it’s not meaningless.  
Still, it haunts him.  
_Can he feel it?_

 

 

He always makes sure to do it late.  
_rendezvous with the devil (so sly) on a midnight pact; he’s ashamed of his nonexistent defences_  
Afterwards, he buries the event deep in the machine; paralleling the clickclock of his mechanical heart.  
A while later, he goes into a sim and beats up a few bad guys and feels better.  
Whilst moral absolutes return with the newfound emotion, Neo’s not ready to transgress into shades of grey. Not yet.  
_it’d be useful, though;_  
_he doesn’t_ hate _him, not anymore_  
but he loves Trinity  
The wonder of discerning between the real and the nonexistent; Trinity and Smith.  
He’s no philosopher, and it would take an eternity to decipher.

 

 

_“Please don’t leave, stay in bed, touch my body instead; I’ll make you feel it, can you still feel it?”_


End file.
